Worn On A Sleeve
by helliex88
Summary: A collection of one shot Canon POVs, some Pre-Twilight. All examine the themes of love and loss, or more the fear of loving and losing.
1. The Only Way I Know You're Here

**A/N: Was originally an example for the contest I hosted with cdunbar; 'An Exploration of the Senses'. Now a one shot in my collection of Canon POVs.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.**

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The Only Way I Know You're Really Here

I sit at the kitchen table with my palms flat down on the top. I see dim sun shining through the window and I feel the warmth from the radiators on around the house. I taste the remnants of my toothpaste in my mouth, fading and mingling with the sour tartness of my orange juice. I smell abrasive morning air.

But I hear nothing.

Sounds enveloped and blanketed me; they guided and spoke to me.

This morning all is silent.

And then......

The simple tinkling bells of a dawn chorus rings out. I smile and close my eyes. Life is stirring and awakening and I can _hear_ it. Bedsprings spring, creaky floorboards creak and my ears follow my father's footsteps as they pitter and patter, slip and slap against the floor. He walks barefoot into the bathroom and I hear the splash as he passes water into the toilet bowl. A hoarse cough spirals out of his lungs, up his chest and along his throat, shooting out of his mouth in congestive bursts.

A tap runs and I hear the sloshing of water run around the sink and the thick wet sound of soapy hands rubbing against each other.

A car engine rumbles past the front of the house, the spinning metallic sound of bicycle wheels follow shortly after. My mind conjures images of fictitious characters starting their day; I don't know who they really are.

My father moves into his bedroom and the soft brushing sound of clothes being removed and put on, punctuated by uneven and unsteady footsteps tells me he is getting dressed.

In the manner of an automaton I open my eyes, allowing the light to reflect and refract and bring vision back to my perception of the world.

But it is the _sound_ of my world I am concerned with.

I use my eyes to accurately navigate my way around the kitchen as I prepare breakfast for my father. But I listen to the consequences of my movements to guide me.

The squeak of a cabinet door, the dull, heavy thud as cast iron sinks against stainless steel, before grating against it creates a keening high sound that makes me wince as I pull out a heavy frying pan.

The shuffling of my movements is an indication of my awkwardness and unsettled feeling within my own skin as I move down the counter to place the pan on the hob (the clang of metal on metal once again invades my eardrums, telling me I misjudged the weight and force of the utensil).

My socked feet pad softly, thud, thud, thudding as my heavy footsteps bend toward the fridge. A soft sucking sound as I open the door, polythene sliding against impenetrable industrial plastic as I take the packet of bacon off the fridge shelf.

Snips from scissors release the meat, clicking ignites the gas and thick, fatty meat sizzles and hisses in a hot pan.

Stamping of heavy soled shoes acts as a premonition of my father's arrival into the kitchen.

A gruff "Morning," followed by a nervous clearing of a throat is the announcement of his presence.

My low "Morning" sounds like it comes from my chest, my weak and hollow chest where I swear I can hear my heart beat strangled spasms.

Out of all my senses I prefer to listen; listening gives me hope.

Scuffled shuffling brings my father to my side, a crack and a swish scramble his eggs. Grinding adds salt and pepper, a slosh is milk, and delicate scatterings of high metallic tones is the whisking of the ingredients as they combine to the tune of thick lapping swirling around the glass bowl.

Hissing and spitting abruptly ends as bacon is removed from the pan, and with a brittle fragility is placed on the plate, eggs pour into the pan with a glugging sort of noise and the whisk swishes fluidly, scraping the pan as it tears through quickly cooking eggs.

Wet thuds and rattling are the eggs hitting the plate and the whisk knocking the remnants from the pan.

Clanging is the dishes dumped in the sink and the harsh scraping is my father pulling out his chair as he sits down to eat. I sit beside him, another chorus of screeching as the chair legs jar against the floor so I can sit down. Yet the chorus of birds outside I can still hear so distinctly are so much more beautiful and pleasing.

I close my eyes as I sit beside my father. I do not eat, I listen to the world eat instead.

The furious sawing of my father's knife through his bacon and rapid tapping as he loads eggs on his fork tells me he is enjoying his breakfast. Approving grunts reverberate from his throat through the intermittent chomping of his jaw and teeth.

I hear the steady sighs of my breathing, which act as content sounds of meditation-- I am lost in my listening.

My father never questions why I do not eat, why I sit silent and careful. He knows I am waiting.

My once cavernous chest is learning to cope with a healthy beating heart, I am teaching my chest to no longer ache. Yet I cannot stop the doubt and fears from creeping up on me; I am careful.

So I spend my mornings quietly as I listen to those who are not careful hurry through their mornings to start their day, eager to speed through their routines and practices they are confident in.

My father's knife and fork clatter to the plate, chair legs scrape and tear through the air once more, and then the sound of a small pucker as my father kisses the top of my head goodbye.

I sit silent and still; I'm still waiting.

Jingle of keys, clicking of locks, heavy clunks of doors and the deep hum of an engine tell me my father has left for work.

I hope I don't have to wait much longer, I hear painful whimpers escape me. A by product from the pain of my nails digging into my palms. But I am too busy listening to concentrate on feeling.

A smooth beautiful sound flows down my road and this car engine sings a song so much more welcome than the birds that pleased my ears earlier. The engine runs to a stop.

The opening of a car door, the firm stamp of a booted shoe on tarmac makes my stuttering heart burst into sprinting beats.

The car door closes, footsteps grow louder. They are set to a rhythm so even I marvel at the achievement. The whimpers from the back of my throat are stronger as my patience begins to thin.

_Finally, _knocking at the front door makes me open my eyes with a start and I trippingly walk to the door.

Shaking, I open the door, the security chain rattles against the wood as my unsteady hand pulls the door toward me.

I feel so eager, yet am so scared.

I open the door and my eyes take in everything I have ever wanted. But I will not trust them, I need to hear to believe. His voice was always too complex and wondrous a sound for my memories to recreate accurately.

"Good morning, Bella."

I am undone and sagging to the floor when he catches me, his voice a soft cadence in my ear, caressing me and loving me with every lilt and dip of his voice.

I realise my frantic voice is marring the beauty of his brushing against my ears as my head is held to his chest. I stop my chanting and take it into my head where he can't hear it.

_You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You __**are**__ here._

My eyes are closed, my breath is caught, my hands are trapped and empty as he clutches me to him, and I cling like a corpse to the only one who makes me feel alive.

I can hear the strength of my heartbeat, my deep and loaded sobs as I gasp with relief.

I hear his incriminate cursing, and soft shushing as he comforts me and berates himself.

Everything stops then. My breathing returns to normal, the chanting in my mind stops.

His anguished angelic voice quiets and his grip on my body loosens.

I turn to him. I look him in the face-- I am still listening.

I listen for the sharp intake of breath that tells me he has stopped the flow of air into his lungs and the low growl in his throat. The signal for me to move away for my own safety. No matter how much it tears my still fresh wounds to be away from him. Especially of my own volition.

But I do not hear those sounds and move toward him.

My lips brush tenderly against his, and all my senses burst from my body like the explosion of a brilliant sunrise.

I no longer listen patiently. I no longer shut out the luxury of touch, taste, smell and sight to focus all my energy on hearing.

I _feel_ the softness of his slightly wetted lips part and move against mine.

I _taste_ the sweet intoxication of his venom that will be the key to our happiness if he lets it.

I _smell_ his heady perfume that swirls around me and dazes me until I cannot think anymore.

As we pull away – my breath lost, his stopped – I _see _him. My bronze, white and golden love.

And I _hear_ him say with an awe that overwhelms me,

"Bella."

That one word is expressed in such a way I know my mind could never fabricate it, and I know I do not need to listen patiently anymore.

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**A/N: Review if you'd like, this is more I kind of writing exercise for me as each one I want to write in a different style or format.**


	2. The Scrawlings of a Lovesick Old Fool

**A/N: cdunbar requested I delivered.**

**This also has been removed and then added to my collection of Canon POVs. Thank you for all the lovely reviews previously submitted!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.**

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The Scrawlings of a Lovesick Old Fool

2120, S. Calumet Avenue,

Chicago, IL 60616.

13th August, 1917

Dearest Miss Platt,

It has been six years, two months and seven days since I was fortunate enough to attend you, upon your admittance to St. Mary's hospital in Columbus. I know that we shall not meet again, and that is only right. You will now be twenty-two, or thereabouts, and most likely married. I hope happily, and to a man of worth who is both gentle and kind to you.

Yet I feel I must write this letter to you of my feelings. In fact, to 'speak' bluntly, my strong feelings of devotion, love and attachment. I can with utmost sincerity tell you that not one day has passed where I did not think of you. Where I have not desired your company, the sound of your voice, or the warmth of your spirit.

I have already decided I shall not send this letter; your eyes shall never see these poorly worded and hastily scrawled words. Yet I feel like I am baring my soul to you. I feel like I have pulled back skin, flesh and muscle... my very chest cavity open so that you may peer so closely in.

I am so old, my darling. You cannot comprehend how old. And yet, I am drawn to you. Only a child when we met, even if you are a woman now. I am drawn to you like a man is drawn to a woman, a moth to a flame. I ignore the vastness of the years behind me compared to the small stretch behind you. Not even a quarter of a century! I beat you by twelve, my darling.

To society you are just a child and I am a myth. But to me you are Esme. The physical encapsulation of divinity that I adore.

I am a god-fearing man. My father was a Rector and he instilled his values into me, but the strength of my devotion to you far outshines my devotion to our Father. The power of just the idea of you over me is terrifying.

I remember the first time I saw you, in our one and only meeting. A muddy and tear streaked face looked up at me and tremblingly smiled.

I fell that moment and I have not stopped.

I tended your injury, trying not to allow my hands to touch you lest you caught a chill. But inside I was burning and found my eyes devouring your unveiled leg. The colour of fresh cream, despite the violet and lavender bruising, a shade I disliked seeing marring your beautiful skin, undid me. I remember finishing tying the bandage and looking up at you from my knees. You were smiling down at me benevolently. I stared unafraid into your soft brown eyes and I did not flinch as you stared into my amber ones. You stretched out your hand and it hovered next to my cheek. I yearned for you to mould it around my face, to lean into your warm hand and breathe in youth, and peace.

I have never ached for someone to touch me as much as I did then.

But your parents returned into the room and the rest of my time with you ended too quickly. You avoided my gaze until you left.

I have known hell, my darling. I have lived through three days of it. And I have known loneliness from countless years of living it. But these past six years, two months and seven days have been the most desolate of my existence. The world is made of ash to me if you are not in it. It is dark and dull, the landscape just variations on the same colour - grey.

I feel hollowed out, a husk of a person. I have striven for death many times and never achieved it. I feel sure I shall perish if you are not with me.

In this letter I shall not send I need not fear offending or shocking you, my darling. In the most respectful and ardent way I crave you with all of my being. I have never kissed you, I have never held or caressed you, but I know in the depths of my heart you would feel wondrous, that we would be wondrous together. I find myself slipping into fancies of what life would be like with you. Hearing your laugh every day. Seeing your smile. Holding you in my arms whilst we lay in bed, delirious in our happiness. I do not think about whether my cold skin affects you, or you are immune to it. I dream of phantom happiness.

I cannot settle, I cannot think. I am consumed by thoughts of you. You, a young girl I met over six years ago and only for an hour. I cannot explain it. I cannot explain why I long for you so. All I know is that I do, and I feel my sanity leaving me through such yearning.

Which is why I write this letter that you will never see.

I wish to write my love to you, before I lose my senses. I know that you are the only one I shall ever love, but I am resigned to my fate. I will let you live your life until it reaches its natural end. And I shall love you constantly, and fervently, from afar, wishing you the happiness that eludes me.

Your devoted servant,

Dr. C. Cullen.

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**A/N: Hope you liked it, I would welcome reviews. I've never written letter format before.**

**Oh, and I wrote an entry for the 'For The Love of Jasper' contest. It's a canon one shot JPOV called 'Man Of War'.**

**Thank you, hopefully TATH won't be long.  
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	3. Man Of War

**A/N: Originally written for the 'For The Love of Jasper' Contest. One of the rare pieces I'm quite proud of.**

**Thank you to cdunbar beta'ing it so long ago, and to all the lovely people who originally reviewed this story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything written by Stephenie Meyer or Joseph Heller.  
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Man of War

'The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off. '

'Catch 22' by Joseph Heller

There are places in this world where my name is still spoken with fear. It commands respect and obedience, for to not feel those would spell certain death.

I am a soldier. I died a soldier and remained so. Soon battle and fighting and blood became all I knew. And hate. Hate and greed and terror.

I remember Maria's lusty laugh of delight as she watched me 'train' new recruits. That beautiful Medusa-- I would wind her coiled locks around my fingers as her mouth transported me into a state of heady bliss. The only bliss I received through all those years of destruction.

I became unstable. Emotion was flung at me from all sides, bombarding and colliding with my mind like a hazy drugged fog. I would sometimes sit, sobbing for hours with no real cause to. I would laugh hysterically, leaning against walls for support as laughter racked my body. Even though I didn't get the joke. I would glut myself feeding, fuelled by others' hunger. Then would loath myself as I felt my prey's terror.

I lost myself and turned into a demon, with the beauty of an angel.

My hair is long and blonde, thick with a shine that resembled a cruel mockery of a halo. They would call me Apollo, as I stalked forward with my weapons bared. I was swift and immediate, death was never far away if it was I that hunted you. And I was never defeated.

Scars criss and cross my body like vicious love bites. A penance for my sins when no whip or reed was strong enough to leave such marks.

I am no God of War. I was but a foot soldier to kneel at Maria's feet. She turned me to stone with a careless glance, a flick of the wrist and a kiss to the neck. Her kisses killed.

She had killed me once and as I fell deeper and deeper into the hell she created for me, I knew she would be the true death of me. I had to leave, before true feeling left me forever.

I left under a burning sky, I didn't look back. Maria called for me, sobbed for me, laughed for me. She believed I'd return.

"You'll never be far away, _mi amor_. I know this as do you, Jasper. _This_ is all you know." Those words haunted me as I travelled north. So tauntingly spoken, so confident.

I nearly turned back then, I was so close to doing it. She was right, it was all I knew. The camaraderie of fellow soldiers, the thrill of the fight. But I'd think of Peter and his Charlotte as they fled into the dark forest like nightingales, hands clasped tight. I watched them go, the moonlight illuminating white boulders that circled me like a pixie ring. Or like licked-clean bones. I shut my eyes and drank in a wondrous feeling, something I had never felt before. Something so strong. It was love.

I had never felt love with Maria, and if I had felt love before her I didn't remember it. I did not feel tender toward anyone, there were no recruits I particularly noticed. Love was never something I expected to feel.

Until Alice.

Alice. Her name must be spoken with reverence, with joy, with the adoration she deserves. It is a treasured word and I love to say it. I cry it, I laugh it, I gasp it and I breathe it. I am no longer crushed under waves of emotions that I have no wish to feel. It is not blood and fire that surrounds me as I walk through this world. It is Alice, and Love. I am Apollo no more, I am Achilles. She is my weakness, which I proudly bear. I would have no other.

We found each other in a backwater Philadelphia diner and never looked back. I sat on a stool at the counter, swilling the coffee I wouldn't drink around the grimy, chipped cup and furtively observing the crowd of people around me beneath the brim of my dark felted hat, selecting my next meal. I had not fed for days. The self loathing that always consumed me was hard to shake and I fed only when I couldn't hold out any longer.

A small red-eyed beauty sauntered up to me, people turning to watch her pass, and emanated such powerful feelings of love toward me that the cup I held slipped from my fingers and tumbled to the floor as I swivelled on the stool toward her. I didn't hear the cup break or feel the hot coffee splash onto my clothes. I watched Alice stand before me, as she lifted a little pale arm and softly cupped my cheek.

"You've been keeping me waiting, fella," she said with a tender smile. I cocked my eyebrow and replied with an amused smile, "Why, I'm awful sorry for that, ma'am, but I'm here now." And then I tipped my hat to her. A beautiful grin spread across her face, and that clinging gloom that had hung around me for eighty-five years lifted like the casting off of a mourning veil. She was bright and shining. I couldn't look away. I didn't want to.

She perched on the stool next to me, her hand moving to entwine her fingers with mine. I let her. I was too frozen to protest. I felt blanketed and comforted in a peace I had never known before. This strange slip of a girl, this ethereal nymph loved me before she even knew me.

We talked of our lives thus far. Her eyes would glaze over intermittently and the first time it happened I was terrified. Terrified for her. I had not known her for even an hour yet, but already I had been claimed as hers. She did not do it with teeth and pain, but with smiles and caresses.

She told me of her gift, and of how she found me. That when she woke up from her three day long death it was my face she saw. She thought it was an angel. I laughed bitterly but stopped when I felt her sorrow.

I told her of my sins, the evil I had done in my life. I told her more that night than I had ever told a soul, or a soulless, before. I waited for her to spurn me, to withdraw her soft hand nestled so tightly in mine. I waited for biting words and retreating footsteps.

She held me to her and blessed my forehead with a cleansing kiss. Her kisses gave life.

We left the diner, the rain beating down hard on the sidewalk and on us. She wore a simple brown dress and could no longer feel the cold, but squealed and recoiled as raindrops fell on her. I laughed (a true laugh that _my_ feelings were responsible for instead of someone else's) and took off my long heavy coat for her to use as a shield.

We ran across a field, she led and I followed. As I watched her lithe and graceful figure twirl in the night, flashes of lightning illuminating the lines of her form, I knew I'd follow her for the rest of eternity. Suddenly she stopped and turned to me, her eyes wide and mouth open in delight. Love and desire struck me with the force of a hurricane and we pounced at each other.

We tumbled to the apple grass floor, holding the other tight. I looked down at my sweet Alice and smiled languorously.

"You've seen us, ain't you?" I asked her with a husked voice. She nodded slowly in reply and a light humming sound came from her throat. I expected to feel disappointment, that she had seen us make love and knew what would happen. She knew the secrets of our love making before I'd even known it would happen. But I didn't. Because even though she knew, all I could feel from her was happiness, love and intense desire.

She had no memory of another man, and I had too many of one woman. But it did not hinder us.

I kissed her mouth softly, her venom was sweet and her tongue gentle. Her little hands fluttered across my back and shoulders, trailing down my arms as though she could not decide where to settle. I stroked her cheekbone with one hand, her hip with the other.

Our desire was a slow burning flame. Under the cloudy night sky we showed our love for each other in the oldest of ways. Her heated look as I touched her so intimately for the first time burnt itself in my mind. And even though she had _seen_ it happen, the _feeling_ of it took her entirely by surprise.

I unwrapped her body from the pauper's clothes she wore like a bridal gown, and I removed the child-like undergarments she had been given to fit her frame in that hellish place. I held the woman of my heart in my arms as she took off my armour.

Naked as babes we lay in the grass while the rain fell down from the heavens and baptised the holiness of our union. In that moment I truly believed I was blessed by God.

My sweet Alice wrapped her arms and legs around me as I covered her with my long form. I pushed into her and even though we both suspected I was her first, she did not tremble. I hated that I was not untouched, that I had known another. It was she that comforted me, stroking my face lovingly, as we joined together for that first time.

I pressed her into the ground, reluctant for there to be even a centimetre of space between us. She giggled into my mouth as I kissed her passionately in time to my movements. I freed her mouth only to hear her gasps of pleasure, I needed to hear them. To hear the innocence of her joy, the sweetness of our actions. After all I had seen and done, I _needed_ this. To hear how happy I made her.

I moved my hands so they clutched hers. She pressed her little body hard and urgently against me as we rocked and swayed to our bodies' desires. I rested my cheek against hers as she panted into my neck and I shivered, relishing the sensation.

And then we effervesced, grabbing and grasping at each other in awed desperation. The pleasure that overwhelmed my senses was an eclipse of sight and sense. All I could feel was Alice. Myself within Alice, my hands in Alice's, my mouth on Alice's. I swallowed her rapturous cries and she swallowed mine. I freed a hand to touch her once more before her pleasure waned. She crested and keened once again, her unclaimed hand tearing a crater in the ground beside her.

And as sense restored itself to us once more, we huddled into each other, and while darkness covered us, we explored the other's body at our leisure.

We travelled for two years, happiness our guide and laughter our companion. Alice guided us since she knew where we were headed. I followed my Alice gladly. We trekked our way up, dodging the sun and its light; we made our own. We rented sleazy and cockroach riddled hotel rooms. We didn't need the sleep, but deserted woodland and fields became hard to come by.

As we lay on sheets stained by human sweat and other fluids, we turned the dingy room into a perfumed boudoir. Decadently I would worship every inch of Alice's beautiful body, the stature of a child but the curves of a woman. No snake coils to snare me, her shorn hair brushed my finger tips that I did not grasp and pull at. It was too precious to me, an eternal reminder to her what her human self had suffered. They had hacked away her hair as if they could hack away her strength. My Alice was stronger than Sampson, she was stronger than Atlas. I would comb my fingers through it gently as we lay together, as we sat beside each other, if it was within reach. She would purr like a cat and I would laugh and love her more for it.

But our attention turned. Alice knew the time was close at hand when it would not just be the two of us anymore. We would join five others. We explored areas that resembled her vision. It took us months and I teased her at each wrong turn.

"Look's like that third eye of yours is going blind, darlin'." She would grin and poke me in the ribs, sticking out her tongue. I would kiss her deeply and the search would get postponed.

And then we found them, the others she had woken from the darkness to see as our family. And though I struggled with the denial of their nature, I was happy. I found brothers and sisters. I found a father.

And I was with Alice.

There were quarrels, there were disagreements, but with the aid of my gift the storm was weathered. I felt lucky and giddy and I never stopped to ask myself, "Is this real?" If it was a dream I'd rather not know.

Alice was the sun which I orbited, the cause I fought for, the deity I trusted and believed in. Maria and pyres and bite marks were behind me, I thought of them rarely.

I struggled with the temptation of human blood though. That soft pulsing so often surrounding me was an exquisite torture. But Alice would soothe me and tempt me in better ways, saving me before I sunk into that abyss of self-loathing once more. We played our parts, comedy or tragedy we played them. I graduated high school and college more times than I care to remember with my eidetic memory. We moved across the northern states on a bloody rampage. Luckily it was only animals that were slaughtered and we ensured that no species ever suffered the diminishing of their population too much. I found it strange living with such conscientious people. But ironically they brought my humanity back to me, I felt the distance to my human side fall away.

And then one day my brother fell in love.

She was a sweet young girl, fresh and innocent. Eyes like a doe and a heart of gold. Alice adored her and Rosalie sneered at her. I knew he was onto a good thing.

But a birthday present and a drop of blood made me snap. Even Alice couldn't save me then.

She is in Italy now, chasing after her brother with that sweet young girl he loves to bring him back to his senses.

I sit in our room, holding grief at bay while huddled by the window as I await her call. It may be her last.

I am a Man of War, I am Achilles. And I wait for the arrow to pierce my heel.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading if this is new, or re-reading if it's not.**


	4. 15th August 2006

**A/N: Another installment. This one is Rosalie. Hope you like.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.**

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15th August 2006

It is the height of summer and I died seventy three years ago this night.

I mark the anniversary by refusing to recognise it, it is another day on an ever growing string that I will never reach the end of.

My family litter the house, flitting through rooms like ghosts and spectres of another time. Occupying their minds with frivolous pursuits in a vain effort to distract themselves from the awful and terrible truth. We are all mad.

And my eldest brother is the worst of us all.

All of us lie, everyday nearly every second. In some way what we say and do is false, a sham of the very creature we hunger for. Both the blood they carry around in their soft, warm bodies, and their shallow fleeting lives, which they pursue so blindly and ignorantly.

I personally believe that the turning into a vampire is so traumatic to the human brain we lose our sanity over the three days. How else can I describe the life I lead but one of madness?

And now Edward is watching a human girl sleep, he is an idiot and will damn us all.

I am a proud and fierce woman, my insanity has manifested itself in a resolute will. I can never be turned from my path, and will back down to no one. But I am afraid of this human girl.

I loathe her with all my being, and fear her much more than that. She will tear away this fleeting peace from us without knowing what she does. Our existence is cursed, and I struggle with the life I lead. But I cannot bear to lose it, for I know this is as good as it can ever be for me.

I have the love of a good man, the understanding of a family who forgive my cruel words I so often wound them with. But the torn away promise of a baby in a crib haunts me like a guilty mind. I'd give it all away in a heartbeat if I could, my husband knows this but loves me still.

How foolish I am, how consumed by fear.

Nothing happened today. Nothing ever does.

Tickety-Tock

I watch the clock,

And count down the days

When I shall raise,

To life again

It's nine past ten,

Nearly there

I'm nearly there.

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**A/N: Only little, but hopefully quality over quantity wins out in this one. If you follow 'The Tortoise and the Hare' Chapter 18 is on it's way, had immense writer's block that I only just cracked the other night.**


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